The Goal was to Hibernate
by darkangelazure
Summary: Adrenaline still running hot and sticky, just a buzz beneath the hop, skip, jump of his heart as he squeezed the shotguns trigger, the boom knocking him and the smoke of gunpowder burning his throat. Sam hated this part.


Disclaimer:I don't own any of the characters featured in this fic, it's just a bit of fun, don't sue me!

Title: The Goal was to Hibernate

Pairing(s):Sam/Dean

Rating(s):NC-17

Warning(s):Pre-Series, Underage (Sam is 16), Consensual Incest, Blood, Language and Angst.

Summary: Adrenaline still running hot and sticky, just a buzz beneath the hop, skip, jump of his heart as he squeezed the shotguns trigger, the boom knocking him and the smoke of gunpowder burning his throat.

Sam hated this part. Like the monsters could smell his deceit, his heart dipped in tar with it, their fingers sticky with innocent blood and sharp hungry teeth, like they could feel him crawl round their nests, their eyes glowing with a recognition of the darkness in him and he'd pull the trigger when he could see the whites of their eyes.

A/N:The title is the title of Bon Iver's Album (check it out, it's awesome).

000

Adrenaline still running hot and sticky, just a buzz beneath the hop, skip, jump of his heart as he squeezed the shotguns trigger, the boom knocking him and the smoke of gunpowder burning his throat.

Sam hated this part. Like the monsters could smell his deceit, his heart dipped in tar with it, their fingers sticky with innocent blood and sharp hungry teeth, like they could feel him crawl round their nests, their eyes glowing with a recognition of the darkness in him and he'd pull the trigger when he could see the whites of their eyes.

Dean would whoop and Dad would clap him on the shoulder for a warm minute between the bitter seconds of death and the realization he wasn't bleeding out into the dirt.

But John's praise never lasted long and the darkness would cloud over his jagged features, ruff with looping grief and unsatisfied lust for revenge that always lurked underneath.

It was usually a cheap shot like "Why didn't you follow orders?! You could've got yourself killed ya stupid boy!" or "Lets salt 'n' burn and get outta here" always cheap and quick.

Dean was always a little more warm, still burning with the hunt and hands twitching with the need of release usually pushing Sam around, knocking him and gripping him to tight with a one armed hug, bicep through dirty leather digging into his neck.

And the gun powder clogging his throat, the high never lasted long with Sam. But Dean could keep riding the crest as they rolled into their motel room, smudged with muck and blood and guts and sweat, everything nasty and grit stuck in teeth.

Sam was always irritated while Dean was too loud, smiling and crackling with all the sparking drugs that ran through his veins, wanting to fight and fuck, throwing Sam around with a playful tug to his smirk and his eyes wet jet and hungry.

His hands too ruff in Sam's hair, fingers pinching and pulling at his sleeves, sometimes whirling him round the cramped rooms like a rag doll or rilling him into heavy breath wrestling matches on the thread bare carpets that always smelt of cigarettes and cheap industrial cleaners that came in intimidating white cartons.

Sam put up with it, limbs airy and exhausted, even the scratch of the motel sheets and hearing the plastic wrapped mattress under his weight while Dean showered and sung over the spray was enough to lull him on his feet.

Maybe swaying back and forth like a fleshy pendulum on the edge as John slipped into his own room, most of the time just a door away but his presence was always heavy no matter where he decided to be for Sam.

Dean would come out of the shower, towel damp and wrapped round his hips, still dripping and a slow smile still going, eyes blown black with just rings of emerald underneath the half mast of his eyelids.

Sam would crack a smile, muscles aching under his skin as his lips stretched and feeling his eyes glass over as he cataloged Dean's scars, some raised and candy pink from the hot water, some silver with age and stark against the scolded peach and sprayed with freckles, his brass amulet golden, the leather strap black and startling against his skin.

"Hey" Dean would croak, gravel against leather and deep with the ride. Sam's skin would crawl, always the same thing.

Dean's eye's would give it all away, rimmed jade and sticky like molasses in moon light, his smile lazy and his voice just on the edge of want.

And God did Sam know that much, his body always felt like a puddle of cells, hormones and want,all bony elbows a crocked knees, always clawing under his skin as Dean would slip into clean boxers and an over used shirt.

The shower would always be on the edge of too hot but it'd be enough to dissolve the splattered mud, blood, the almost crystallized sweat like a lair of grit, cheap shampoo and milky conditioner, scrubbing his skin to an abused pink, everything smelling too sweet.

But there'd never be enough hot water, the pipes gurgling and the pressure stuttering to prickling cold, like ice sheets slipping across the planes of his back, clamping his eyes shut against the pain. Stumbling out of the stall and shivering, always a spare towel in the sink and his opaque reflection hiding his flaws.

If the lights were on, florescent and showing stains then it's his own bed, cool sheets and listening to Dean's breaths even out and slowly rumble into snores, and if he listened hard enough he could hear the pitter-patter of his own heart beat.

But the lights hadn't being on in months, this whole situation had slipped between being a ritual and a habit.

So in the darkness, the flicker of passing car lights was enough for him to find his flannel pajama pants and maybe a over sized T-shirt, too soft and smelling too clean against the skitter of his skin, rising heat that boiled in his gut.

Slipping between the same smelling sheets, they'd tangle at the ankles first, a few minutes and the fabric collecting and trapping their heat, maybe another flash of car headlights and Dean's hand would curl at his hip.

Thumbing up the hem of his shirt and rubbing against the exposed skin, stretched over bone and sensitive enough to make Sam bit his lip, breathing through his nose and feeling calloused fingers tangle into the hairs below his belly button.

His arm trapped under himself and his fingers grasping the sheets, Dean's mouth next, lips chapped and warm against the wetness of Sam's neck, hair still dripping and clumped together.

The darkness hides everything, Sam's skin had already started to flush, a scarlet wave crawling across his torso, Dean's chest already flush against his back, the heat cracking under the sheets as Sam opened his eyes, another car.

Like a flash light shinning through the gloom, a bed untouched and the duffel bags ravaged, clothing spilt like insides on the over vacuumed carpet, he could feel Dean's fingers map the ridges of his sternum, skin shivering under his touch and mouth open, hot and wet against his neck.

He could already feel teeth on flesh and the tremors were already racking his bones, always growing and like toothache pain in his marrow, but Sam's aches weren't the subject now and it was his skin that talked, singing like a whore under his brothers fingers like it aways did.

The taste of blood was like a friend as Dean's knuckles brushed against a pebbled nipple, Sam knew the color of it like he knew the scars on Dean's back, just like he knew Dean wanted his mouth.

The feel of his wet tongue, tasting Sam's pulse, a ruff palm and fingers circling Sam's right wrist and he could already feel his pajamas tent, filling with heat and need, but it was nothing new, always half hard and wanting.

But it was a shock, enough to make him yelp when Dean pulled his arm up, stretched tendons and his hand curled and pinned against the MDF headboard, half on his back and side.

But Dean's mouth was quick, he doesn't let the yelp fully fledge, escape the darkness and through the thin walls, tongue hot and thick and too eager to taste. Sam was used to this bit, eyes closed against and sagging against Dean's dominance.

Dean always got like this, not just pinning Sam between fun but a sort of necessity to show Sam he was "Second in Command" "Nearly Alpha Male" it could come out in small orders to full blown bites, a sometimes necklace of mottled bruises.

But it was always this way after a hunt, him still coming down from it, hungry and ready to fight and fuck, own something, mark and scent, Sam was always at hand for that.

His arm was free, pins and needles prickling on every inch as the blood rushed back through the veins.

Dean's body was bent at the hip, knees bumping and Sam could feel his dick, steel wrapped in flesh and hot enough to brand skin. Dean's tongue poking and prodding the bleeding dint in Sam's lip, tasting Sam's copper tang and swirling round Sam's mouth.

Sam could feel the circulation in his hand dull, tingling and fingers curling against Dean's knuckles as Dean's other hand thumbed the new muscles, ridges and davit scars that Sam could already feel shame for.

Bubbling just as hot as his want, swirling in his belly, heart jack hammering with a new drug, Adrenaline had burned away and now it was Endorphins and Serotonin flashing like comet tails through his vein.

Dean's hand going lower, lower , lower, a callous snagging at the elastic. Sam gasped, and the curve of Dean's mouth against his, maybe mocking as he slid a warm dry palm against the hard flesh of his dick, digging his own into Sam's cleft and almost laughing onto Sam's tongue.

The stutter-stumble of his heart and the zig-zag lighting stripping up his spine, dry, hard skin on his dick enough to make him whimper as Dean growled. Warning maybe, cock grinding into the groove of Sam's ass, but Sam knew enough to move with it, hissing against the dry friction.

Dean's chuckle cracked the almost silence that had become a rule for them, and Pablo Naruda's words always echoed in Sam's head when this happened _between the shadow and the soul_.

Sam's mouth became cool, Dean's absent along with his hand from Sam's cock and Sam could feel himself flounder, mouth open and gasping in the stale oxygen that he felt his lungs crave for.

Could hear the hack of him spitting onto his palm, Sam didn't even open his eyes, already imagining it silver, shiny and thick in Dean's palm.

And all he wanted to do was break the silence and shine more light onto the both of them as Dean's now slick palm and fingers wrapped round his cock. Strokes sure and experienced.

Dean smiled through the new kiss letting go of Sam's now bruised wrist, grasping at the hem of Sam's pajama's pants, pulling against and pushing them down, Sam wriggled obediently, neck aching at the angle as he kept his hand against the headboard.

It was an awkward shimmy as Dean wrangled his own boxers off, skin on skin, hot and wet with pre-cum as he slipped his cock between Sam's crack. Sam could feel a small jolt of panic mixing with the lightning shots of pleasure up his spine.

Spit dribbling down his chin and the new edge to the game they'd been playing for the past few months was nearly the last straw for Sam, teetering over the edge of bliss as Dean's hips canted, bitting and fucking Sam's mouth with abandon.

And Sam could feel Dean was close, his thrusts erratic and messy, Sam could be a bitch when he wanted to be, clenching the muscle of his ass as Dean's hand faltered on his dick, thumb sweeping over the head to hard, spit, pre-cum and sweat slick.

The bed was already starting to squeak, the rusted nails and cheap frame squealing as Sam's body convulsed, every muscle clamping down and throat almost sealing shut against the wave of white fire bursting through his nervous system, toes curling, balls tightening and every synapses in his brain firing as he came over Dean's always split knuckles.

It was only when he came down, floating and the sounds the world almost under water when he felt Dean come, the hot splatter against the small of his back and curve of his ass, a soft grunt into his slack mouth before he slumped.

Sam's ribcage caved a little, shimmers of pain and lungs straining for air as he felt Dean's, the heavy rabbit foot stomp of his massive heart almost matching Sam's.

Sam would have liked to think that as he felt Dean slither off his body, pulling at his pants, up over the cooling mess, his hands more uncoordinated on Sam's body, a lot less hard, wanting, taking then at the beginning.

But it always played out this way. The shifting dip in the bed as Dean pulled up his own boxers from around his knees and padding with an almost contented sigh to the other bed.

And Sam wondered, maybe next time they could do this with the lights on.

The End


End file.
